“But who are you? What do you want—”
“Miss, I want you—leastways—’e does. Been callin’ for you the last three days ‘e has, ever since ‘e ketched one as fair doubled ‘im up—”
“I—I don’t understand. Who are you?”
“A admirer of the Guv, ma’am. A trusted friend of ‘is, miss—come t’ take ye to ‘is poor, yearnin’ arms, lady —”
“But who—oh, what do you mean?”
“Mr. Ravenslee, ma’am.”
“Mr. Ravenslee!” she echoed, her colour changing.
“Yes. Y’ see—he’s dyin’, miss!”
Hermione gasped and leaned against the wall as if suddenly faint and sick, perceiving which, the Old Un promptly set his arm about her waist and led her unresisting into the parlour. There, having aided her tenderly into a chair and nodded to pale-faced Spike, he sighed, shook his ancient head, and continued:
“Ho, Lor lumme, lady, it fair wrung my old ‘eart to ‘ave to tell ye, but, ‘aving to tell ye (Joe couldn’t) I told ye almighty quick to get it over—sharp an’ quick’s my motter. Fate’s crool ‘ard when Fate takes the gloves off, miss, an’ I know as Fate’s been an’ took ye one in the wind wot’s fair doubled you up—but take time, miss, take time— throw back your pretty ‘ead, breathe deep an’ reg’lar, an’ you’ll soon be strong enough to go another round. If I’d got a towel handy I’d fan ye a bit—not ‘avin’ none, no matter. Fate’s ‘ard on you, so fair an’ young, miss, but Fate’s been ‘arder on the Guv—ketched the pore young Guv a fair spiflicator—”
“Oh, please—please,” cried Hermione, reaching out appealing hands, “oh, tell me, is he hurt—sick—dying? Oh, quick, quick—tell me!”
“Lady, ma’am—my pretty dear,” said the Old Un, taking those pleading hands to pat them tenderly, “that’s what I’m tryin’ to do. The Guv ain’t dead yet—no, not—yet—”
“You mean he’s dying?”
“My dear,” said the old man, blinking at her through sudden tears, “that’s what the doctors say.” Here he loosed one hand to rub at each bright eye with a bony knuckle. “An’ ‘im so young—so game an’ strong—three days ago.”
“How—did it—happen?” she questioned, her voice low and steady.
“It was Fate!” said the old man, taking her hand again. “Three days ago Fate (the perisher) sends him a telegram—two on ‘em—tellin’ ‘im to meet you in a wood an’ signed with—with your name, both on ‘em—”
At this she cried out and would have risen, but his kindly clasp checked her.
“I—sent no telegram!” she whispered.
“Me an’ Joe an’ the Spider know that now, miss. But anyway, to this ‘ere wood the Guv do ‘aste away, an’ in this wood Fate’s a-layin’ for ‘im wir a gun, an’ down goes the pore Guv wi’ a perishin’ bullet in ‘is gizzard. An’ there Joe finds ‘im, an’ ‘ome Joe brings ‘im in the car, an’ Joe an’ me an’ the Spider ‘ushes things up. An’ now in bed lays the Guv with nurses an’ doctors ‘anging over ‘im—a-callin’ for you—I mean the Guv, d’ ye see? So now for you I’ve come. I’ve brought Joe an’ the car for you—Joe’s across wi’ Mrs. Trapes, an’ the car’s below—both waitin’. So you’ll come t’ th’ pore young Guv, miss, won’t ye, lady?”
“Have you—any idea—who—did it?” she questioned, speaking as with an effort.
“We got our suspicions, ho, yus!” the Old Un nodded. “Joe’s got a wonnerful gift o’ suspicion—oh, a rare ‘ead ‘as my lad Joe. Joe an’ the Spider’s on the track, an’ they’re goin’ to track Fate to doom, ma’am—to perishin’ doom! Y’ see,” here the old man leaned suddenly nearer, “y’ see, Joe’s found a cloo!”
“A clew! Yes—yes!” she whispered breathlessly, moistening lips suddenly dry, and conscious that Spike’s lax form had stiffened to painful alertness.
“Well, ma’am, Joe an’ the Spider’s been a-seekin’ an’ a-searchin’ of that there wood, an’ they found,” here the Old Un leaned nearer yet and whispered harshly, “they found—a coat button! Lorgorramighty!” he exclaimed suddenly, pointing a trembling bony finger, “what’s took th’ lad—look!”
Spike had risen and now stood, breathing loudly, one hand clenched upon his breast, and turning swiftly, took a stumbling pace toward the open window, tripped, and fell prone upon his face.
“Oh, poor lad, poor lad!” cried the Old Un, rising hastily. “Fate’s been an’ ketched him one too—a fair knock- out! Leave him to me, miss, I’ll bring ‘im round—bitin’ ‘is years is good, or vinegar on a sponge—leave ‘im to a old fightin’ man—”
“No!” cried Hermione passionately, “no, I say. Leave him to me!” Quelled by something in her tone and manner, the old man sank back in his chair, while she, kneeling beside Spike, lifted him in her strong young arms so that he was hidden from the Old Un’s bright, piercing eyes. Holding him thus, she loosed Spike’s rigid fingers and drew away that clutching hand; then, seeing what that hand had striven to hide, she shrank suddenly away, letting the boy’s inanimate form slip from her clasp; and, as she knelt there above him, her shapely body was seized with fierce tremors.
So she knelt for a long moment until Spike sighed, shivered, and sat up, but beholding the look in her wide eyes, uttered a hoarse sound that was like a cry of fear and, starting from her nearness, crouched down, huddled upon his knees.
Then Hermione rose and, turning to the old man, smiled with pallid lips.
“You see—he’s all right—now!” she said. “If you’ll please go and tell Mrs. Trapes I’m leaving, I’ll get ready.” Obediently the Old Un rose.
“Mrs. Trapes is a-gettin’ into her bonnet to come along wi’ us!” said he, and putting on his hat with a flourish, took his departure. When he was gone, Hermione turned and looked down at Spike, who, meeting her eyes, flinched as from a blow and made no effort to rise from his knees. So she packed her grip and dressed for the journey, while he watched her with eyes of mute appeal. Twice he would have spoken, but her look smote him to silence. At last, as she took up her suit case and turned to go, he implored her in a hoarse whisper, reaching out his arms to her:
